The Tale of Sir Lancelot and Sir Galehaut
by beeayy
Summary: Lancelot has lost all chance of being happy with Gwen, but Galehaut is proving to be very distracting. Banter, medieval jokes, and true love ensue. An in-progress spinoff of "the Friday Knights" series!
1. Is This a Date?

**A/N (Arthur's Notes): **

This is a spinoff of the "Friday Knights" series by me, Maeglin, and Caitydid, which is an AU from Season 3. It takes places after the 4th Friday Knights installment, "A Dish Best Served Cold", and features Sir Lancelot and Sir Galehaut.

**If you have not read the "Friday Knights" series: **Arthur is king and has married Guinevere, leaving Lancelot pining for Guinevere in silence. Sir Galehaut, Lord of the Distant Isles, is a character in the Arthurian vulgate cycle who we have added to the Friday Knights series, but his development has somewhat outgrown his position in the series, hence the spinoff.

**Read about Galehaut's arrival in Camelot in: **the 2nd Friday Knights Installment, "The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship" (in Maeglin's stories), plus other short scenes with Lancelot and Galehaut throughout the Friday Knights series.

**This spinoff is written by myself and EffervescentAardvark.**

Galehaut observed Lancelot sitting on the terrace in the garden, chewing a sorry-looking sandwich and glancing now and then at Guinevere's window. He had just finished speaking with her, and now watched the man who ached for her affection with a more critical eye than before.

There were always things one should not pursue, no matter the desire. Everyone has their regrets. So far Galehaut's friendship with Lancelot had been cordial, almost accidental—it was easy to fabricate chance meetings, to conveniently always get the seat next to Lancelot in the tavern. Easy, friendly, relatively distant_. _Lancelot made it clear that he couldn't conceive of any other level of connection between them, and why should he? They were playing an age-old game of acquaintance. But Galehaut wanted to start a new game. Making up rules as you went along always held the possibility of unexpected disaster. And of course the main problem with this particular game was that winning was not the object. No—he didn't really think he could ever _win. _But he could play.

If he wanted to play this new game, change the rules…how much could he change?

He stepped forward, and began.

"Do you mind if I join you?" Galehaut asked. He repositioned his packages in his hands.

"Oh—no, not at all," Lancelot said, making room on the plinth for Galehaut to sit as well. Lancelot watched him nervously, and, to stave off the inevitable awkward silence, he asked, "What's in the packages?"

"Oh, these? Just my lunch," Galehaut said, unwrapping package after package. "If there's one fault my servant has—"

Lancelot felt his mouth drop open yet again. "Y-your servant? You have your own servant?"

"Why not? She's a very accomplished cook and seamstress, which are two things I am almost always in need of. Anyway, if she has any fault, it's that she tends to make my helpings a bit too large. I ask for a bit of chicken curry with dandelions, and she gives me a veritable banquet!"

Lancelot looked back at his sandwich, which looked a lot more unappetizing compared to the exotic and spicy smells issuing from Galehaut's lunch.

"Here," Galehaut said, after a long pause during which Lancelot almost certainly gave away the fact that he was eyeing Galehaut's lunch with envy. "We can share, if you like."

"Thank you," Lancelot said. With the chicken curry, dandelion salad, biscuits and light wine, it was just enough to fill them both up. Did he…plan this? But then he said nothing after the duel. Perhaps Lancelot was imagining things.

"Is this a date?" Lancelot asked suddenly.

Galehaut's eyes turned on him as he took a drink of wine. His stare could have melted iron, and Lancelot felt himself becoming warm under the collar. But then Galehaut lowered his glass, and Lancelot could tell the look was only one of amused concern. "My dear Lancelot," he said once he swallowed, "whatever gave you that idea? Are you trying to proposition me?"

"No, no!" Lancelot said quickly. "It's just, you know—the food and everything, it's—like a date. Isn't it?"

Galehaut grinned, his blue eyes squinting as the concern dropped out of his expression and was replaced with exasperation. "This is just lunch, my dear Lancelot. Just a lunch, in public, between two knights—what could be more platonic?"

"I just thought that you—"

"That I what? Like you? Don't be silly—you're not my type."

"Oh. Good." He didn't like the way that Galehaut put it, but it was still good news.

"After all, you like Guinevere," Galehaut continued.

"Right!" Lancelot said firmly.

"_Right_." He got the feeling that Galehaut was being sarcastic.

"I do!" he insisted.

"Of course you do," Galehaut said with extreme sympathy. It was like expecting to come up against a brick wall and hitting nothing. Why did he still feel like he didn't make his point?

The lunch and company were very good, though. He barely thought about Guinevere at all.


	2. A Hobby

A/N: In which Galehaut suggests that Lancelot take up a hobby. A little bit of a "Princess Bride" reference in there...sorry, we couldn't help it.

Lancelot snarled as he murdered another wooden practice dummy with a slice of his sword. Sweat was dripping into his eyes and all his muscles ached. But it was a good pain, a physical pain that helped blot out the pain of seeing Arthur and Gwen together. If only the two of them didn't look so damned happy all of the time! He took a breath and flipped his visor up to look for another target, he still wanted, needed to beat up on something.

As he glanced around his gaze settled on Galehaut, who was there _again_, watching him with his annoyingly cheerful smile. Couldn't the damned man tell when a guy wanted to chop up wooden men alone? Lancelot found himself having a brief mental battle. Most of him wanted to just ignore the man and he tried to turn away to set up a fresh target…but somehow he found himself smiling back and walking over as the bloody inconvenient _polite_ side of his brain insisted on acknowledging his fellow knight. Internally he winced as he found himself giving Galehaut a friendly wave and seeing how the knight's smile got even wider.

"Hallo, Sir Lancelot!" Galehaut took Lancelot's wave as a cue to bound over enthusiastically and start talking. "I see you have vanquished yet another foe!"

"Well you know what they say, practice makes perfect, Sir Galehaut." Lancelot replied politely, banally, just wishing the man would leave him to his sulk.

Galehaut's smile took on a mischievous quality. "Does it, now?" he shrugged, feigning nonchalance, "Well, Sir Leon would agree with you, I'm sure. But I imagine that practice dummies don't offer much resistance to being defeated, do they?"

Lancelot frowned. "I—beg your pardon?"

"I mean if you're absolutely determined to reduce your sword to the sharpness of a soup spoon, you might as well get some _real _practice." He hopped onto the training field and flipped a sword in his hand.

Lancelot blinked in surprise...this hadn't been on his list of things to do today and he couldn't take his temper out on one of his fellow knights the same way he could a nice wooden target, still, it _was_ a tempting idea and practice was never a bad thing. "Sure." He nodded, giving his own sword a little flourish as he assumed a ready stance.

Lancelot thought he saw Galehaut laugh at his wrist flick, which he thought was a little rude until Galehaut performed the exact same motion. "I didn't know you knew Capo Farro's style. Where did you learn it?" He stood on guard, waiting graciously for Lancelot to make the first move.

Lancelot circled cautiously, looking for an opening. "I spent years travelling, learning to fight so I could become a knight." He shrugged, not the easiest gesture to pull off while wearing chain mail, despite Gwaine somehow managing to make it look simple.

"I see! I should have guessed that a rugged man such as yourself would know something of the world." He let the tip of his blade scrape harmlessly along Lancelot's. "I would suggest leading with the left edge of your sword for the first blow—it seems a bit sharper."

"It doesn't need to be sharper if I wield it hard enough." Lancelot swung, leading with the right edge of his sword on general principle, trying to hang on to his polite side. Normally showing up at inconvenient moments his polite side was rapidly disappearing, as Galehaut kept on talking and he was having a hard time remembering it was a 'brother in arms' facing him who had no idea of the kind of mood he was in right now.

"...You know, I always preferred Agrippa to Capo Farro," Galehaut continued incessantly. He neatly sidestepped one of Lancelot's blows and—and did a _pirouette_ before he came back around and met Lancelot's blade coming around. "It almost borders on the elative, but it is very freeing." He dropped his stance completely and turned around, taking the stance of an instructor. "Have you ever tried keeping your back foot a little more turned outward?"

"Do you always talk this much when you're sparring?" Lancelot asked between gritted teeth, "Or are you just trying to annoy me?" He shifted his grip on his sword, reversing his swing to try and take advantage of Galehaut's new technique.

"Often, and yes." There were a few sharp clashes that broke the crisp air as the sparring match took on a more lively tone. "Is it working?"

"I'm not Gwaine. I won't lose my temper with a few well placed insults." Lancelot tried to rise above the taunting, as he started to work up a bit of a sweat as things got a little more serious and he had to work quickly to parry an unexpected thrust from his opponent.

"Ooh," Galehaut said, feigning a wince. "Already on the defensive! It's lucky I arrived when I did, or those training dummies wouldn't have stood a chance against your mighty wrath."

Lancelot snarled a little under his breath as he blocked then twisted left to follow up with a hard thrust. "What _is_ your problem?" He asked, finally losing his hold on the 'polite' element of their conversation.

In a swift movement Galehaut brought the hilt of his sword straight up to Lancelot's, and his more ornate hilt got caught on Lancelot's simple crossgaurd. "You don't have to hold back on my account." Galehaut squinted in response to Lancelot's questioning gaze. "Why did you think I came over to you in the first place? Anyone could tell you were in a less than stellar mood from a mile off. Don't be offended—you wear your heart on your sleeve, I admire that. So why not act on those feelings?" he pushed a little closer. "Come at me. Really come at me. You'll feel better for it."

"I'm not about to hurt someone I fight with. Not even you Sir Galehaut." Properly angry now Lancelot spit his opponent's name out like an insult, as he unlocked their swords and hit out again. "And my mood is none of your business."

"It is if you're so obvious about it. Your emotions are like the town crier—never ceasing to sing to the rooftops. Take Guinevere, for instance..."

At Guinevere's name Lancelot truly saw red and put his full force into his next attack.

"You see?" Galehaut said, exasperated (though whether from the sudden fierce attack or from his reaction to Guinevere's name, Lancelot could not tell). "The very mention of her name brings passion up in your veins!" Galehaut had to move fast to parry the flurry of blows that Lancelot was giving him, and he didn't get a chance to talk until he had backed away considerably. Even then he only spoke between blows. "But where-does all-that fiery-passion go? Just becomes ang-er!" his last word was cut in two as Lancelot neatly knocked Galehaut's feet out from under him.

As Galehaut hit the deck Lancelot moved in instinctively for the kill before reason leaked back in just in time and he stepped back with a look one part panic to two parts guilt. "Oh God, Galehaut, I'm sorry."

Galehaut looked up, and, to Lancelot's dismay, he was _still _smiling. "That is the most true I have seen you today. And _that_ is precisely why you need..." he paused a moment to catch his breath and prop himself up as he squinted up at Lancelot. "…a _hobby_."

"I...what?" Lancelot gaped like a fish out of water as his mind tried to process the sudden left turn in conversation.

"A hobby!" Galehaut, his strength returned in an instant, jumped to his feet, sword once again at the ready and pointing at Lancelot's throat. "You know, recreational activities. Even Leon has his weapon and standard collection to keep him busy and out of trouble. And _you _definitely need something to keep you out of trouble."

"I _have_ a recreational activity," Lancelot moved his sword instinctively to guard himself from Galehaut, "And Leon has _named_ all his crossbows. You really think that's a healthy example?"

"And what recreational activity would that be?" He said, doggedly not giving up his point. "Ogling the queen?"

Lancelot's eyes flashed angrily. "I would _never_ ogle Gwen. I practice. It's a hobby, and it makes me a better knight."

"Oh, I think you ogle her enough that you're beyond any need for practice." Lancelot snorted; and turned around as if to leave the field altogether. Galehaut sighed like a child whose friend isn't playing along. "Are you serious?" He whined, his sword tip dropping down as he shrugged in exasperation. "_Arthur Pendragon_ considers practice still work."

Lancelot shrugged a little suddenly aware that he'd spent his whole life wanting to be a knight, and now he was there wasn't much else too him. "It's always worked for me."

Galehaut pursed his lips and took on a less playful tone. "You've…always trained to be a knight, then?"

"Well, yeah. After my family was killed. It's what I wanted to be." Lancelot blinked, wondering where the sudden attack of chattiness had come from.

"I'm sorry." Galehaut paused, turning away slightly so he could look at Lancelot out of the corner of his eye. "I'm also sorry that you've been so misinformed as to the nature of being a knight."

Lancelot frowned, his sword lowering as Galehaut turned away. "You don't have to be so..." He started before he processed the rest of what Galehaut had said. "I know what being a knight means."

"I will admit that you understand what knights do, but not who they are. It is very noble to strive to be better than you are, but such a noble sentiment can apply to more than fighting. There's so much to think about, to debate! You need something constructive which can take you to a plane beyond this mortal coil with its cares and tribulations."

Lancelot blinked, and then blinked again. "Um...planes and mortal what?"

"You must expand your mind as well as the reach of your sword! Mental stimulation during leisure time will keep you focused when at work, let your thoughts set on something of interest, perhaps provide an agreeable distraction...?" He was getting the mischievous look in his eyes again.

"I read!" Lancelot was in fact quite proud of the fact that he'd taught himself that before he came to Camelot. Of course Galehaut knew this—he even looked like he would be willing to provide feedback on some of the poems that Lancelot wrote for Gwen. Writing poems was a hobby, right? The look on Galehaut's face was starting to make him positively nervous though. How had he got into this conversation in the first place. Oh, yeah, damned politeness!

"So you do, my dear knight! As inspiration for poetry, perhaps?" At this, while Lancelot was still flabbergasted at being called 'dear', Galehaut took a slim book with a pale green cover from the coin purse at his belt and held it out. "Have you ever read _Pangur Ban_?"

Lancelot looked at the magically appearing book as if it expected to bite him, "Ah, no. I don't think so." To be honest he didn't read much besides the really romantic poetry—not like Leon, who read almost anything Goeff handed him. And he didn't feel much like reading romantic poetry, especially if it came from Galehaut. But if it wasn't about romance...he couldn't be sure what it would be about.

"I just finished reading it this morning, it's very good. It's about a..." he paused and glanced at Lancelot, reading his unease. But it was only a half second before he continued, "...about a cat. A magical cat. The whole thing is very mystical; but it makes for a light, intriguing read."

"A cat?" Okay, Lancelot relaxed a little, that was kind of, strange, but then this _was_ Galehaut, at least it wasn't something, about Love and Honour and all the things he'd really had enough of right now

"I don't think anyone else in Camelot has read it, honestly," Galehaut admitted-His demeanor became a shade more insecure and pleading; but only slightly, like he was trying to hide it. "I asked Geoffrey and he only shrugged it off. I think I might go mad if I don't find _someone_ to discuss it with."

Damn, the politeness was back, and Galehaut looked so...insecure all of a sudden. Lancelot was having a real problem keeping up with the perplexing man's moods and his conversation. He reached out cautiously, taking the book while his mind told him this was a really bad idea.

Galehaut's mood instantly brightened like a successful fisherman. "Who knows? It might make a good read, and give you something to do." He bit his lip, then added, cautiously, "I appreciate your gallantry, Sir Lancelot, but I can tell when you're just doing something to be polite. I mean if you don't want to read it..."

"No..." Lancelot held on to the book, vaguely wondering how strange this looked to onlookers as he stood, a sword in one hand a book in the other. "I've...always wanted to read a book about cats."

A look crossed Galehaut's face that Lancelot could not interpret. He nodded and spread his hands. "Then I commit that little volume to your charge. It is not a long read-shall I have to tell my servant to have lunch ready for two tomorrow?"

Somehow on the back foot yet again (what was it with this man?) Lancelot flushed a little, suddenly less confident of his reading skills. Sure, he was the best reader out of the non-noble knights, but he didn't have a nobleman's education and what things he had read only highlighted the relatively small size of his vocabulary. And Galehaut seemed even _more _noble, if that were possible. "I might not be finished by then."

"I'll admit that reading may cut into your 'taking out pent-up emotions on hapless training equipment' time," Galehaut said, beaming like a ray of ginger sunshine, "But it's not very long. And I have great confidence in you. Reading counts as a hobby, now that I think about it…and lunch certainly does."

Lance looked at the book a little unsurely. "I think I still prefer practice, but I'll give this a go." He couldn't resist the sudden delight on Galehaut's face.

"Excellent! It's a date-in the most platonic sense of the word, of course." He patted Lancelot companionably on the shoulder. "Now, don't you think you ought to get cleaned up?"

Lancelot almost squeaked in unmanly panic as Galehaut mentioned the word 'date', but relaxed at least a notch as his brain caught up with the rest of the sentence. He was still sweating slightly from his earlier exertions and figured Galehaut probably had a point. "Yeah." He nodded, turning to head off before pausing. "Um, lunch...where do you want to eat?"

Galehaut raised an eyebrow. "I would have thought you would insist on sitting at the garden terrace. After all, it offers such an excellent view of the Queen's window." Lancelot spluttered on the spot, but before he could think of an intelligent reply, he was looking at the back of Galehaut's head as he sauntered off into the castle.


	3. The Chase is Like a Game

A/N: Galehaut and Lancelot read "Pangur Ban." Lancelot likes strawberries. Galehaut does not like epic poetry.

...

Galehaut arrived a few minutes early to set the scene. He was a student of microgeography, and he was secretly very proud of Lancelot that he picked the single more desirable location for lunch in the entirety of the castle. Aside from the aforementioned view of Gwen's window that it afforded, the terrace was shaded, shielded from excessive rain, wind and sun, would stay fairly warm through most of the winter due to the large slab of granite that made up the terrace, and the table and chairs were well-made and just the right size for anything a pair of diners could wish for. It gave a lovely view of the gardens, the main castle buildings, was on the other side of the castle from the stables…yes, it was probably perfect.

Except for the fact that it was right underneath Gwen's window. But one can't have everything.

He arranged the food on the table and sat back in the chair that was positioned such that it would force Lancelot to either look at the window or at him, not both at once. Certain rules had to be established, after all.

He mused for a minute, looking out at the garden. He was painfully aware that this was a dangerous move he was making. And the prospect of danger made his spine thrill with excitement.

"Did you manage to conquer it, Sir Lancelot?" he asked amiably as Lancelot approached.

Lancelot was obviously a bit nervous, fidgeting with the book as he approached and looked around edgily. But honestly, the fact that Lancelot showed up already made Galehaut's day—it would have been easy enough for the dark and handsome knight to find some excuse not to come at all. He might have switched guard duty with Gwaine, and it looked like, as Galehaut addressed him, that he almost wished he had. But Galehaut noticed a subtle determination in Lancelot's eyes, something whispering that retreat would be a coward's way out. And Lancelot was certainly no coward…the brave knight forced a smile and stepped forward. "I'm not sure 'conquer' is the right word."

"Ah! I see you are more the connoisseur of poetry then you admit! There's so many hidden depths to this poem that most people dismiss it as fanciful."

Lancelot looked around, still obviously trying to deal with the fact that Galehaut had chosen his favorite spot. "I'm not sure. I mean, I didn't see where the cat was um, magical." But he sat down, bringing them within a few feet of each other. Time to close the psychological gap a little, to match the physical.

"Would you have read it if I said it was about some scribe and his cat?" Galehaut said. It was an attempt to show that he knew Lancelot better than he himself, but he hoped the cavalier nature in which he posed the question made it less snarky and more convivial. "Anyway, the cat is a bit magical, if you think about it."

"It is...? He seems very catlike to me. I mean, sleeping and catching mice and things. Or was I reading it wrong?"

"Lancelot, you cannot 'read a poem' wrong. What is interesting is that you found the scribe to be catlike, when the cat is equally described as perfectly scribelike. There are many things to deduce from this...do you like pepper on your chicken?" he unwrapped a few packages, leaving the dessert covered for now.

"Galehaut, you didn't have to go to all this length!"

Galehaut looked up at Lancelot's slightly worried and amazed expression. But while the expression was one Galehaut hoped to illicit many more times in the future, he didn't want to encourage that kind of behavior for something so trifling, so he expressed his delight by giving an exasperated smile. "My dear knight, you are very kind to think of me, but I do believe I told you I have a servant to prepare my meals? In any case the prospect of one intellectual conversation is worth ten _lunches_." he took a chicken leg and daintily began to eat. "As I was saying, there are many conclusions that can be drawn from the particular choice of the cat as the scribe's vehicle for describing his pursuit of knowledge..."

Lancelot placed the book on the table and slid it carefully over to its owner, before taking a piece of chicken. "This is really good." He smiled genuinely, "I thought the writer was comparing how he chases knowledge the same way as his cat chases things?"

Galehaut watched Lancelot take his first tentative steps into literary criticism with a mixture of pride and excitement. "Very good! But I wondered as soon as I finished it, why should a scribe choose a common housecat as his muse? Why not a hound, an animal who makes a career of chasing objects of desire? Why not pick something more intelligent—a captain, a conqueror, perhaps?" He took a drink of wine, allowing a moment of pause to see if Lancelot would show interest. "You see why I wanted someone else to read it. I crave a second opinion."

"I'm not sure I'm that clever..maybe Leon? He's been brought up reading this kind of thing? But, don't you think cats are clever even than dogs?"

"They are certainly quieter. And a cat has no work to speak of—unlike a dog it walks through the world as if it need not do anything to earn its meals. Such a lifestyle seems to be charmed itself. I wonder if the scribe noticed the independence of his cat—and envied it? But then the cat is a domestic animal, described in a homey context. Freedom and domesticity, combined in his description." Galehaut paused, seeing Lancelot's expression. _Oh dear, I know that look._

"I just thought that cats were cleverer because dogs have to work for their food but cats seem to have gotten away with that somehow." Lancelot's noble brow was furrowed in confusion, but in the expression of his lips Galehaut sensed an undercurrent of defiance. Galehaut genuinely wondered—did Lancelot mean to challenge _him_?

He took his chance and dove in. "Then, if we take food to be a metaphor for knowledge, can we say that the scribe has attained a higher level of existence—completely beyond concepts of independence and ownership—where he does not merely require knowledge for survival, but requires it to _be. _Freed from the cares of the world, our scribe simply revels in the pursuit of knowledge itself, playing with facts like, aha, cat and mouse?"

Lancelot blinked, and then helped himself to another chicken leg, nibbling on it slowly as he apparently tried to process what Galehaut had said. "Um, yeah?"

Ah. Then he recognized the look correctly. He was going too fast. Either that, or a person that could follow Galehaut's train of thought when he really got going just didn't exist. "...Yeah?" he repeated nonchalantly, using Lancelot's coarser slang so as not to crowd him too much. _Give him a chance to catch his breath, _he thought. _Don't push him—he's going to think he's being teased… _Oh, how brittle this game could be! And yet, perhaps, easily mended. He broke eye contact and helped himself to some bread, letting Lancelot organize his thoughts within his own space and time frame. Luckily the garden's many birds made the silence not so much awkward as thoughtful. He felt things shifting between them—whether widening or narrowing the gulf, he could not yet tell.

He watched as Lancelot pretended to be fascinated by his food. Galehaut seriously started to consider what he would do if Lancelot shouted something like "Behind you!" and ran off, when Lancelot finally steeled himself, looked Galehaut in the eye and said, "Do you think that both the cat and the writer, um…the scribe, both enjoy the 'chase' - the pouncing on the mouse and the looking for the um, knowledge as much as they actually like eating it or..." He shrugged self-consciously, "'knowing' it."

"Then..." Galehaut tried to wrap his mind around what at first sounded like a very simple statement. "The chase—it's like a game?" he realized he probably wasn't making any sense and added, "The process as enjoyable as the result, I mean."

"Yeah." Lancelot's eyes lit up in relief. "That's what I meant!"

Now it was definitely Galehaut's turn to be silent for a moment. Honestly he was stunned—Galehaut's theories were generally complicated, often bordering on phenomenological theories or transcendental philosophy, but here Lancelot had come up with something so simple...and yet obviously, startlingly true. "I...honestly, I hadn't thought about it like _that_," he said. He did not add, 'I have the bloody thing memorized and I never thought about it like that.'

"I'm probably wrong..." Lancelot squirmed a bit in his seat..."I just thought he's comparing himself to a hunter...the cat, and okay, sometimes hunting is just about catching your dinner, but more often it's the challenge, you know?"

"Yes." Galehaut managed. Lancelot managed to hit on (at least Galehaut's) whole reason for wanting to have these lunches. It was a game. A challenge. He put a challenge before Lancelot in the form of a literary review and Lancelot accepted—and excelled. He didn't mean to choose such an applicable poem, but apparently it applied all too well. He smiled as he felt the distance between them recede a bit. "You seem quite familiar with such a concept," he said. "The challenge, the thrill of the chase."

Lancelot smiled wryly. "Once you've caught enough to stop your belly rumbling it can be fun. Especially if you're chasing something that's a challenge." He agreed, happy to be on slightly more solid ground.

Galehaut couldn't help but laugh. "I should very much like to see you hunt! Though I shouldn't think any particular game presents much of a challenge to you."

"Some things can't be caught." He sighed slightly, before shaking himself. "This food is amazing. Do you know what your cook put on the chicken?"

Of course. the conversation always comes back to Guinevere. And people wondered why Galehaut had disliked her. "Ginger—perhaps a touch of honey," he said, making sure not to let his disappointment show. They talked about food and recipes for a while—during which Galehaut gleaned a few more ideas for future dishes—before Galehaut chose just the right moment to nonchalantly unveil his secret weapon...the dessert.

Lancelot couldn't help the slight gasp of excitement as he saw the strawberries on the table in front of them. "How did you get those this time of year?"

"I have my methods." he tried to look surprised at Lancelot's enthusiasm which he had of course already predicted. "Over dessert we can talk about what you're going to pick for our next reading."

"I've got to admit, they are my favourite." Lance smiled as he poured some cream over the top, trying to keep his enthusiasm restrained to an appropriatley polite level. "I haven't read an awful lot of 'proper' books." He admitted.

Galehaut blinked, wondering how any man could leave himself so wonderfully open to comments such as: "Well, I enjoy _improper_ books, as well—I suppose we can think of one that's both educational and entertaining. I understand that Gwaine has a large assortment of—"

Lancelot flushed pink from eartip to eartip. "I didn't mean _that_ kind of book!" He managed to get out inbetween choking rather indecorously on a strawberry.

"I apologize for misunderstanding," Galehaut said, throwing up his hands in surrender. "But unless you are thinking of suggesting that we read one of Geoffrey of Monmouth's legal treatises, then I am afraid I'm not sure what you mean by 'proper books.'"

"I'm not a noble, not really." Lancelot explained, back to feeling kind of awkward. "I didn't get the same education you all did...I do like reading though."

"Yes, but you are noble of heart, and that defines true nobility, or so Sir Gwaine says," Galehaut said. He really couldn't help himself. Lancelot looked almost offended, but Galehaut just chuckled—Lancelot would have to get used to this sort of thing, or they wouldn't be able to say anything to each other. "My dear Lancelot, I'm sure the mind that came up with that gem about _Pangur Ban_ would be practically teeming with ideas for the next selection!" he glanced at the strawberries, already almost gone. "Though perhaps I should not have distracted you."

"I guess Gwaine says so much that occasionally some of it maybe makes a bit of sense." Lancelot caught Galehaut's glance at the strawberries and realized how many of them he'd somehow managed to eat. "Okay, I can think of something. I read this amazing story a few years ago...it had a monster in it. It was called Grendel?"

Galehaut felt himself blanch. "Er—perhaps you mean the epic poem _Beowulf_?"

"That's the one!" he watched Galehaut's reaction and deflated a bit. "You hate it don't you?"

"Oh, no, no—I've, er, never read it, actually." This whole reading of expressions thing was going two ways, and Galehaut wasn't sure he liked it.

"It is kind of long. Maybe I could think of something shorter"

"Perish the thought, my friend," Galehaut said quickly, rising to the challenge. "I'm sure I can manage to get through it. Er, how many lines is it again?"

"I think there were over 3000. Um, a lot anyway. It did take me a long time to read. Really Galehaut, I can find something else!"

"Really, Lancelot, _you_ don't need to fuss over me so. I mean with my _noble_ education I should be able to tackle a few thousand lines with relative ease!"

Lancelot frowned a little, not wanting to embarrass Galehaut by inferring he couldn't read the book. "Well, maybe we should give you a bit longer though. Perhaps we should meet up next week, then you will have had a chance to read it properly. It is a really good story. I think you'll like it."

Galehaut sighed, a little exasperated. Lancelot was too—everything. Too caring, too thoughtful, too polite, and...well, too in love with another woman. For the first time he actually felt safe being in Lancelot's presence. he coudl flirt all he wanted and Lancelot wouldn't notice. There was a kind of comfort in the possibilities he was left with, and he felt that he was in perfect control of himself...which was possibly a side-effect of not being in control of himself at all-like being intoxicated. "As you wish," he said, almost sultry, but proving his point when Lancelot merely nodded and finished off the strawberries.


	4. Jealous of a Better Man

Lancelot pulled his cloak around him, shivering a little as he stood at his post on the walls, looking out over the main entrance. Guard duty was never his favorite thing to do. Too much time to think. And thinking generally turned to brooding. And the weather had definitely taken a turn for the worse. Sleet blew persistently into his face and he tried not to think too plaintively about ducking down the steps to keep out of the weather. He was here to keep watch and he couldn't do that from shelter.

"I understand that most knights take shelter in that alcove there when guarding this particular stretch." Lancelot turned to see Galehaut standing at the bottom of the steps, smiling up at him and carrying a ceramic jug.

"I wouldn't be able to see over the wall from there." Lancelot shrugged, trying to look nonchalant but not managing to stop the happy smile when he realized he had some company, and specifically Galehaut for company. "What are you doing up here? You're not on watch today."

"Well," Galehaut said, waggling his eyebrows mischievously as he ascended the steps, "A little bird told me that you're the only knight that takes this watch seriously. And since my favorite dining companion was braving the cold rain while all I had was this jug of mulled wine to keep me company, I thought I might bring it out." He held out the jug, the ceramic still warm from its place by the fire.

Lancelot broke into a broad smile of genuine gratitude." Thanks—You're a life saver."

Galehaut bit his lip as he grinned, a sure sign that he was just as pleased as Lancelot was. He pulled his hood up as Lancelot took a drink of the hot wine. "It's nothing really. And I had no other plans for this evening, since I finished that, er, charming little epic you suggested."

Lancelot let out an involuntary moan of pleasure as the wine warmed his insides and the jug warmed his hands. "What, you finished it already? I'm sorry, it was even longer than I remembered."

"Oh, well," Galehaut said, shrugging and clasping his hands behind his back, "It was certainly an _easy_ story to follow."

"Did you enjoy it?" Lancelot asked, passing the jug back to Galehaut to share the contents with him.

"Well, there—wasn't much to it, I thought," he said, with embarrassed tones but he didn't seem very sorry. "I mean, he kills a couple of monsters. I could have told you the plot in three lines."

Lancelot's face fell. "But what about the themes? Loyalty, Reputation?"

"…and Being a Big Damn Hero, yes," Galehaut said. "It didn't seem to have much substance to it. All flashy prose, I thought. I fail to see what the _point_ of it was."

"Oh...well." Lancelot shrugged, going for nonchalance. "Maybe we'd better move on to another book? If you still want to?"

"I don't mean to put you off, my dear," Galehaut said, putting a hand on Lancelot's arm and giving a squeeze. "After all, I know you like it so much. Perhaps I'm missing something in it."

Lancelot tensed at the unexpected contact but managed to resist the instinct to pull away. The man's hand only took a few seconds to warm his arm. "Well, what about the idea of pride and how it led to Beowulf's downfall?"

"A section I'm familiar with," Galehaut said, taking a big drink of wine. "But of course he triumphs in the end, and is glorified by his men! A hero to the last. Honestly, I was hoping Unferth would save the day."

"Unferth was jealous of a better man." Lancelot replied, trying not to suddenly consider whether he was the Unferth to Arthur's Beowulf.

"Perhaps his intentions were misunderstood by a culture not ready to face analytical criticism. Perhaps he was the lesser man, but Unferth is the only dynamic character in the poem. Yet he is practically forgotten by the end of the poem. What can we say for Loyalty and Reputation if Shrewdness and Pragmatism—a, a kind of nobility, I think—is lost among the Strong and the—the Loud?" Galehaut removed his hand from Lancelot's arm and hurriedly wrapped it up in the cloak again. At first it seemed like a movement of disdain for Lancelot's point of view when he realized that Galehaut's teeth were gently chattering. Lancelot frowned as he looked properly at Galehut's clothes, looking past the fine material and pretty colours and realizing how thin the fabrics actually were. Silly git, coming out in this weather dressed like a peacock. Still…

"Why aren't you wearing something warmer?" Lancelot started to shrug out of his cloak.

"This is the warmest cloak I have—put your cloak back on, you idiot!" Galehaut protested quickly, taking a step back. "I'm quite fine, I ass-ssure you! You've been out here for hours and I only just stepped outside! You must be—freezing to d-death."

Lancelot shook his head, slipping the cloak off his shoulders and bracing himself easily against the cold. "Yes, but at least I'm dressed for the weather. Wait 'til it gets really cold." Ignoring the other man's protests he started to wrap his thick cloak around Galehaut's shoulders. "Don't you have any proper cloaks in your wardrobe?"

"Well, I—thought this was proper," Galehaut said. He gave a shivering giggle. "Th-thank you. I've not seen a cold spell like this in my life!"

Lancelot looked at Galahaut again, really looked at him, as a few things clicked into place in his head. He didn't sound foreign, particularly, but foreigness wasn't all in the accent. He seemed genuinely concerned at the state of the weather. "Where are you from, Galehaut?"

Galehaut gave a smile, and it was not his usual smile. It was almost a smile that showed he was proud of Lancelot. "From a warmer, balmier place, it appears," he said. He raised an eyebrow. "You know, no one has asked me that, really. Not really. It's interesting that you should. You're from...Lac? Good lake country up there, I've heard. I imagine it gets almost as cold there as here!"

"Yeah, its good country." Lance nodded, "But really, if you think this is cold, Galehaut—" He shook his head, "—This is just an early squall. Is this your first winter here?"

"I see I'll have to invest in a few more cloaks!" he laughed, but Lancelot could see that this bit of news worried him a little. Also, his nose and cheeks were becoming quite red from the cold. And he ignored Lancelot's question. That was—odd. But then Galehaut never seemed very forthright, either.

"You can get some really nice cloaks from the market. And boots, you'll need better boots." Lancelot's hand twitched out, to wrap the cloak higher around Galehaut's nose and mouth. "And a scarf, although I have one you could borrow if you don't get time before you're on watch next. And I've got a spare cloak..."

"Honestly, you fuss like a mother hen," Galehaut said, beaming. Their eyes locked and Galehaut looked almost sad. Then he nodded in gratitude and turned to look at the horizon.

"Do you miss it?" Lancelot asked, looking out to the horizon with Galehaut.

"Not as much as I ought to, I suppose," he sighed, without a pause. Lancelot waited for more, and Galehaut just turned his eyes slowly to him. "Yes, my dear?"

"I just..." Lancelot sighed, "Nothing...You should go inside. Get warm."

Galehaut pulled the cloak off his shoulders with a flourish, handing it back to Lancelot with a nod. "Oh, I almost forgot. It's for your virginal." He put a small folio into Lancelot's hand which he had somehow concealed about his person. It was written in a completely unknown tongue—it could be the language of a nearby kingdom, or it could be from a land beyond Albion altogether.

"Thanks." Lancelot folded the cloak over his arm, before taking the small book and looking through it curiously. "I haven't seen letters like this before..."

"Yes, you haven't—isn't it wonderful to expand one's horizons?" he turned and ran back to the castle, shouting "I'll bring lunch by your chambers tomorrow, shall I?" but he didn't wait for a reply.

Lancelot watched him until he disappeared into a door across the courtyard before carefully tucking the folio away and pulling the cloak back on again. As soon as he got off the walls he was going to ask around until he found someone who knew where Galehaut was from. Then maybe, maybe he could do something nice back for the man, he had to be feeling homesick, especially if this was his first year away.


	5. Destiny and Chicken and Music

Lancelot was concentrating as his fingers ran over the keys on the virginal set up on the small table near his bed. The new music Galehaut had given him was very different from anything he'd played before, but luckily the musical annotation seemed to translate even if the language the rest of the folio was written in was a mystery to him and Geoffrey.

He heard voices outside the door, laughter and Galehaut's clear, friendly voice, before the other voices receded and he heard a knock on the door. "It is destiny, sir knight!" Galehaut shouted. "Destiny and chicken!" he giggled as Lancelot opened the door.

"Destiny?" Lancelot replied.

"I was just talking to one of the castle guards—you know Arthur actually tried to get into a lady's room with that kind of introduction? I must admit it has a kind of ring to it." Galehaut stepped inside. "It's actually chicken and crayfish today, my servant was feeling particularly adventurous...my word!" He stared around in astonishment at Lancelot's room.

Lancelot flushed a little as he followed Galehaut's gaze, he might have gotten a bit carried away with the reading thing. When he'd talked to Geoffrey about it the Librarian had got very enthusiastic and now he seemed to have half of the library out on his table and around his bed. Also he may have gone a bit overboard with the spare cloak and scarf options that he had on his bed in preparation for Galehaut's visit. Apart from that the room was neat and tidy, his weapons shining all in their proper places and his much-loved virginal in place on his small table.

"I've um, been doing some reading." he explained nervously.

Galehaut beamed. "I can see that! I've always appreciated a man of focus and industry. I daresay my own chambers could benefit from your organization skills. Oh, and you've started that little piece I brought for you!"

"Yes. It's very interesting. I've not heard something in that key before. It's very unusual." he enthused before quickly remembering his manners and carefully putting up the instrument to make room at the table. "Why don't you take a seat?"

"Oh, please—don't put it away!" Galehaut said, looking worried.

"You want to listen to me play?" Lancelot paused, the chest still open and virginal in his hands.

"Of course! Don't be so modest." Galehaut made to sit on the step leading to Lancelot's bed as he plucked a grape from the tray. "I eat much slower than you do as it is. Allow me this opportunity to get a head start!"

Lancelot was a bit appalled at the idea of Galehaut sitting on his (admittedly clean) floor, but tried not to panic too much. "I've got a spare chair." He gestured, as he set the instrument back up on the table again. His expression clearly told Galehaut that Galehaut's fine clothes on the floor would not be tolerated.

Galehaut took the chair with a "You're too kind" before his pretty clothes even touched the floor, and he sat with an air of triumph. "Please begin-I'm sure its already coming along so well!" he reclined in the chair like it was a throne, eyeing Lancelot with the focus of a cat.

Lancelot twitched a little uneasily under the fierce scrutiny of Galehaut's gaze. "I think I've got the hang of it." He said, quickly testing the tuning of the strings before he began with the first nervous notes.

But Galehaut just smiled, and Lancelot played the first few chords as Galehaut started on the grapes. "It sounds lovely," he said.

"It's got some lovely minor chords." Lancelot said, his attention mostly focused on the music. "Have you heard it played before?"

"Not in a long time," Galehaut laughed. "It could never translate to an instrument I could play. But really, you're doing quite well for only having picked it up yesterday."

"Is it a tune from home?" Lancelot asked 'casually' as he concentrated on a subtle key change.

Galehaut only smiled. For him, the truth didn't matter so much anymore—after all, why should it when a lie sounds more like the truth, or perhaps what the truth ought to be? "It is the music of my childhood," he said. "Our ancestors were barbarians—but their music has influenced ours so deeply that we cannot escape its haunting tones, no matter how hard we try to dress ourselves up in the skin of civilization. We are still very beastly."

"Geoffrey said the letters aren't of Albion. I hadn't realized your home was so far away." Lancelot looked up briefly from his playing.

Galehaut blinked, surprised at the ease with which their lunch was becoming an interrogation-and the subtlety with which Lancelot asked his questions. But he could guess what Lance had found out, and work out what he was getting at. "He said they weren't of Albion?"

"Yes. He saw the folio in my pocket when I was getting some books." He kept his gaze in the music this time. "He didn't recognize the alphabet."

"I doubt that he would," Galehaut said, relieved that Lancelot had clarified his suspicion—Geoffrey did not recognize the alphabet, but then the dear geneologist would be the first to admit that he did not know everything. He listened to a few more notes, but he sensed that Lancelot expected more, so he decided he'd try a fairly believable lie, first. "It is from Albion, in a little hamlet, oh, seventy miles north of here. I understand that the man who wrote that particular piece was descended from a high-born race of fey, who used key changes of that nature to illicit acts of favor from the Old Gods."

"Fey music?" Lancelot looked round in surprise, missing a note. "You'd better not let anyone know that. They don't take magic very well around here."

Galehaut laughed, then lowered his voice conspiratorially as he leaned in close to Lancelot. "Why do you think I've been so secretive?" Then he winked and, when Lancelot finished the piece off with a flourish, he helped put it away. The wink pretty much confirmed Lancelot's suspicions—that Galehaut was telling him a load of, well, not the truth at any rate. Internally sighing at his failure he forced a smile. "I hope it brought back some nice memories, anyway."

"Indeed, and created wonderful new ones by your playing it!" Galehaut tried to lose the playful gleam in his eye as he said this—because he of course was telling the truth now. He unwrapped the packages on the table. "Preparing for an all-weather excursion to read your new books in the quiet of nature?" he asked, indicating the cloaks out on the bed.

"Oh, no..."Lancelot looked over at the pile of clothing. "I thought, maybe you could find a cloak of mine to borrow while you found yourself a better one. As you can see - I've got enough to spare one. And maybe a scarf?"

Galehaut was genuinely surprised. "For me?" He tried to hide how much this gesture touched him, but he wasn't particularly sure how successful he was. "How thoughtful." he cleared his throat. "But I shall only take one that you don't wear very much anymore. After all, I'm sure I'll get used to the cold somehow." He sighed. "So cold and rainy all the time...I hear peasants sometimes sleep with their pigs in the winter. Aside from the smell, I can't say it doesn't sound a little tempting. I wonder at how you stand it."

"This one is very warm." Lancelot selected his thickest cloak, holding out for inspection. "I know it's not as fine as the one you usually wear, but it will keep you warm, and I'll introduce you to Hettie's stall in the market. She has the best cloaks." As Galehaut took hold of the proffered clothing he shrugged. "And it's not so bad all the time. We have really good evenings in the tavern - a roaring fire, good food and friends, while it snows out. It makes it seem more homely somehow."

Galehaut raised a teasing eyebrow. "I'll have to take your word for it." But he accepted the cloak and tried it on. "Who knows—a touch of the rustic..." he laughed, "It might even toughen me up a bit."

"How did you end up in Camelot if you hate the cold so much?" Lancelot asked curiously as he rifled through the pile of scarves trying to find something more...just more. His boring brown knitted things didn't seem right for Galehaut somehow.

"Destiny, perhaps," Galehaut said. "Though not with chicken, this time." he selected a scarf from Lancelot's hands, one that looked unused and was a dark shade of green. He thought for a moment, trying to take this opportunity to teach Lancelot something, without bothering with the truth at all. And though they were already, he thought, good friends, he could not bring himself to try anything besides the most base of lies—a lie to make Lancelot understand that they were the same, that he could be trusted here and now, even if the words themselves weren't true… "Invading Camelot was an assignment awarded me by my lord, whose control spread across the land like the tendrils of a vine. I did not do it willingly, for I was told that if I did not return with my appropriate victory that...the balance would not tip in my favor." He shrugged. "As long as I stay away, things remain as they are. And here I can at least fulfill a kind of duty." He shrugged. "...even if it is a little cold."

Lancelot paused, glancing at Galehaut. "The green suits you." Lancelot noted, before sitting down at the table. "You fear for your life if you were to return home?"

"Not mine, no, Galehaut said. "You see, I have a dear friend who is also under the power of my lord." He looked around. "To tell you the truth, she is of the same mystical lineage that I just spoke to you of—very high born—the best woman I ever knew. We worked together for a long time, and I like to think that some of her wisdom rubbed off onto me. It is she who will be in danger, should I ever return. So I stay away."

"Do you love her?" Lancelot asked, his voice sad as he started to unwrap the food that Galehaut had brought in order to give his hands something to do. But Galehaut gave Lancelot a look that, despite the subject of conversation, made Lancelot laugh and say, "Sorry, never mind!"

"Well, love is an overused word—too many definitions, one word to describe so much," Galehaut said with an responding laugh. "I do _admire_ her. She is far beyond me in every respect, and actually, she can do nothing for me—she doesn't even know I exist. But I admire her...yes. I think about her, and the things she can see and do that I cannot. She makes me think of my lovely little hamlet of Celtica." Galehaut blinked. Was that just enough information to make it sound believable? But then Lancelot had a friend in Geoffrey, so perhaps this lie would be discovered. Oh well—it didn't matter, not really. "Now that I imagine our food is thoroughly stone cold, I suppose the kitchens might be not far on our horizon."

"I'm sure it'll still taste great." Lancelot reassured him, before tentatively reaching out to pat him on the arm. "I am sorry to hear of your pain. I know what it is like to love to no avail."

Galehaut barely bit down a sigh—Lancelot was so _straightforward _about everything! It was endearing, of course, and yet nearly impossible to work with. "I...think not," Galehaut said, not really caring about the ambiguity as to which statement he disagreed with. But he couldn't stay mad—not at that face, especially when it was so obvious that Lancelot meant to be kind. He reached out and tickled Lance's chin. "Anyway, it's not the lunch, it's the company." Before Lancelot could reply he started in on the meal. "Now, I was talking to Geoffrey yesterday about literary patterns in Beowulf, and he pointed out something very interesting called an 'envelope pattern'..."

Lancelot rubbed his chin, not used to being tickled and not quite sure how to take it, but he _could_ take a hint and obviously this was too painful a subject for Galehaut right now. Still, he was a little disappointed. "Envelope pattern?"

Galehaut nodded gravely. "Envelope pattern. It a sort of device where you write the same theme or word—whatever you like, really—into a set of prose so that it mirrors itself. Like a pallindrome. Particularly fascinating little device, especially on the subject of swords."

Lancelot hesitated before taking the plunge and making a guess. "A 'Pallindrome' is a type of sword?"

Galehaut giggled and shook his head. "_Drab as a fool, aloof as a bard_," he said, and when Lancelot started to think he was being made fun of, he added, "It's a phrase that reads the same forwards and backwards. _Ergo, a ogre...oh, stone, be not so_..." he smiled. "Now at least I know what to get you for your birthday."

"Oh, you don't have to get me anything for my birthday!" Lancelot ate a mouthful of chicken with happy sounds of appreciation. "So there's palindromes about swords in Beowulf? I didn't know that!"

"Extensive, metaphorical, and at sometimes downright silly though they are," Galehaut said. He appreciated that the topic of conversation had taken a somewhat more jovial tone, and he hoped that Lancelot would not be too offended that he still hated the poem on general principle. Honor and Valor? They might as well talk more about those fairies if they wanted to talk of fantasy...

"Maybe we should move on to another poem though?" Lancelot asked, "I know you're not that keen on Beowulf. What else do you like to read?"

"Don't give up on me so easily, my friend," Galehaut said. "If I can find even one thing in _Beowulf_ that I like, then there's hope for me, yet!" He looked around and grabbed a book at random off one of the stacks of books. "What about this one?"

Lancelot instantly blushed red and then went white in a panic as he made a belated grab for the small book. "Not that one!"

"Well, you're the one who was being so insistent about changing poems," Galehaut said, easily evading Lancelot's arm. "And I think it's my turn to pick, is it not?" he read the first page, and a wicked grin crossed his face. "Ah, yes! The poems of the famous Sir Thomas Malory! You know, I've always wanted to make a closer study of his works..."

"They're not very good." In fact they're terrible." Lance made another grab for the book.

"Really? Well, I'm trying to keep an open mind. And there are gems in these lesser-known works, yes, veritable gems..." He closed the book and clasped it in both hands as he stood. "Oh my goodness—I forgot until just now that I was supposed to meet Sir Leon for some assistance on technique. Quite silly of me to double-book myself, but it can't be helped I'm afraid. But I'll give this a careful read tonight, shall I? We can talk about it when you're free next."

Lancelot sank down in despair, not knowing what to do. He should confess now, but maybe he could just...emigrate to Ealdor? That would maybe work...Or maybe if he was just really really busy for a while Galehaut would have forgotten all about it. The man was flighty, he'd have moved on to something new after a week. Yeah, a week would do it. He just had to ask Arthur for some extra patrols. "Okay." He nodded weakly. "Thanks for the food."

Galehaut bowed and quickly headed for the door, cloak and scarf in hand. "Thanks for the clothes! I'll make sure to buy you some replacements!"

"No, no, that's okay!" Lancelot stammered, feeling that he was starting to lose ground quickly, "just give me the cloak back when you've got one of your own. And you can keep the scarf, it suits you."

"No, I _insist_—this shade of brown is definitely not your color. I'll see what I can find in the Lower Town, shall I?" Lancelot tried to reply but Galehaut just waved at him as he retreated down the hallway. "Until our next literary adventure, then! Perhaps we can come up with some constructive criticism for Sir Malory while we're at it!"

Lancelot watched him disappear down the corridor in dismay. How did that go so wrong so quickly? Closing his door, he sat back down at his table and gnawed on a left over chicken leg to console himself.

Meanwhile, Galehaut was beaming as he walked down the hall—it had been going downhill for a minute there, but things went splendidly after that!


	6. The Next Great Poet of Our Age

Galehaut turned the corner into the knight's common room and froze, like a hunter who happened upon his prey entirely by accident. But he grinned—Lancelot was sitting with his back to the front door, and hadn't noticed him yet. He had a cup of wine and some armor on his lap that he was polishing. Gal glanced behind him to be sure that no one was around before he silently closed the door behind him. Then he strode forward and contemplated his next course of action. Lancelot was not wearing any armor, just a thin red undershirt. So Galehaut placed his hands on Lancelot's shoulders where this lovely shirt met his brown skin and gave a gentle squeeze. "Lancelot! There you are—I was afraid you were avoiding me!"

Lancelot let out a most embarrassing but quite endearing 'eep' as Galehaut touched him. He dropped the polishing cloth and his hand was halfway to the knife at his belt before he realized that he even looked up to see who it was. Galehaut merely laughed at Lance's reaction, and looked down benevolently as Lance turned startled eyes upward.

"Sir Galehaut," he managed once he was able to speak. "Er—How're you?"

"I'm doing well, now that I've found you!" He patted Lance's shoulders, then picked up Lancelot's cup of wine and gave it a sniff. "...and it appears I found you not a moment too soon." With an effortless movement he swept away Lancelot's wine, putting a much better lunch in its place as he sat down opposite the other knight, effectively boxing him in. "Have you forgotten our weekly book club?"

"Um, no?" Lancelot gulped, "I've just been a bit busy lately." Despite his panic Lancelot's traitorous fingers started to unwrap one of the lunch packages to see what delicacies Galehaut had brought with him this time. He probably was starting to get the impression that Galehaut was some sort of magical creature that could conjure up food in an instant. That was an impression Galehaut was very willing to encourage.

"Of course," he said. "Arthur relies quite a bit on you, doesn't he?"

Lancelot bushed a little at the praise. "No more than any of the others." He risked a glance at Galehaut, and relaxed slightly when he did not see _the book. _

"Now, you shouldn't act so modest," Galehaut said, helping to unwrap the packages to reveal meat pies and brie tart for lunch. "Especially about things you, I have no doubt, spend so much time on." Somewhat regretfully, since Lance looked hopeful that he had forgotten about the book entirely, Galehaut took the book from his jacket and set it reverentially on the table. "These works, for example, are nothing to be embarrassed about."

"Well, I told you that _Malory_ wasn't that much of a writer."

Indeed, Galehaut was impressed—he didn't expect Lancelot to try bluffing it out. But the poor man turned his eyes to focus on one of the meat pies as if they were the most interesting thing in the world, and Galehaut felt a pang of sympathy for the man's discomfort. He chose his words carefully. "I hope I can disagree with you on that point," he said. "I found Sir Malory's works to be incredibly full of insight."

"You did?" Lancelot couldn't help but ask, as he took a fortifying gulp of wine.

"I did," Galehaut said. Though his answer was still in a jocular tone he made sure to meet Lancelot's gaze to show his sincerity. "In fact, I was hoping we could give his style and execution a closer study. I feel that such an exercise would lead to some very enlightening...self-improvement."

Lancelot sighed, his shoulders slumping "You know it was me don't you?"

Galehaut's mouth made a perfect 'O'. "Lancelot!" he exclaimed in hushed tones, "You mean to say that _you_ wrote these lovely poems?"

Lancelot gave a furtive glance around. "You're telling me you hadn't figured that out?"

"I assure you, my friend, I had no idea!" Galehaut said quietly but excitedly. He thought he was laying it on a bit thick, but dear Lancelot was so literal sometimes and Galehaut knew he could be positively enigmatic if he didn't watch himself. He supposed it only showed how sensitive Lancelot was of his poems. "But they're marvelous!"

Lancelot snorted, rather indelicately. "Now _that_ I don't believe!"

Galehaut shrugged. "Well, I suppose they aren't like the conventional sort of amorous poetry one reads about in Geoff's library, but you have incredible creative imagery. I think with a little work on your vocabulary—though that no doubt is already improving—and perhaps some lessons in structure, you could be the next great poet of our age!"

"I'm happy being the best knight I can be." Lancelot smiled a bit lopsidedly, "But thanks for the compliments. You know, you are way too nice to me."

"Oh," Galehaut said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I do nothing. I don't write you fine poetry, for one. At least, not that you know of," he added with a wink.

Lancelot opened his mouth, then closed it again as he thought that one through. "No, and you don't tell me the truth either, do you?"

Oh, so quickly on the offensive? He must really be shy about his poetry. "There is a time and place for prevarication, and this is not it," Galehaut said, in all seriousness. "I really do think your poetry has some wonderful potential. The candidness of your words invokes a trust that is rarely seen among even the best of poets."

Lancelot frowned when Galehaut dodged yet again, but he knew Lancelot well enough to predict that he would leave it alone for now. For all his bold statements and frankness, Lancelot never fought with anyone if he could help it. "You mean I don't have to fancy words to disguise my meaning like other poets?"

"Your frankness is an asset that can be used to great effect. Although you might try tempering the plain statement of your feelings with some—suspense?" he laughed. "After all, Guinevere ought to have to wait until the _end_ of the poem to fully understand your feelings, should she not? You don't want to reward her too early."

"She already knows my feelings." Lancelot smiled wryly.

"All the more reason for building up the tension, peak her interest, keep her on her toes! Allow me to demonstrate." He saw an opportunity, and set down the tart he had been munching on to face Lancelot squarely. "Say I were to write a poem about you..."

"About me?" Lancelot blinked, and Galehaut grinned at his look of confusion. He built up the tension:

"Yes. Now, say I was to describe your eyes. I would not simply say that they shone like stars, though their shining would more softly brighten the night than any harsh constellation. I would not just say that they put to mind the scent of wildflowers, though if I closed my eyes their image would be pressed into my memory like a gently pressed bloom. I should mention instead that your eyes stir within me thoughts of the warmth we have shared in the tavern, of your laughing, of my long-forgotten home." He paused, but only for a moment before he continued, "Now, if we take this as example, you see that I cannot simply say what I truly feel in my heart, or you would laugh and call it pitiful. To explain requires a proper foundation of lesser truths, so that the greater truth can be better stated and understood."

Lancelot gulped, flushed and looked away. Galehaut at least prided himself that _something_ got through before he managed to convince himself that he was just being taught something. "Lesser truths?" he blurted out suddenly, "So _you_ say things that aren't really true?"

"Lancelot, I always tell the truth!" Galehaut said, pretending to be offended, and in truth he was. _Haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying, my dear? The best truths are built on lies, woven with lies…_

"So how much truth was there when you told me where you were from?" he asked, suddenly turning to fix a stern gaze on Galehaut, who saw the emotions warring in his eyes: embarrassment and frustration. It put him off a little, in fact. He was so used to pushing Lancelot it did not feel right to be pushed back, and in such a crude, blunt manner! He wouldn't admit that he was _frightened _of Lancelot's altogether-too-probing remark, but—Well, he couldn't reward crass behavior like that, could he?…

"Enough to prove my point," he replied, happily enigmatic, pointedly unafraid, and happy to pretend that they were still talking about Lancelot's poetry. "You're far too blunt about these sorts of things, and yet you don't really know what it is you're asking." He let that hang in the air a moment, letting Lancelot catch its double-meaning if he wanted to, before he continued, "It's unclear from these poems why you like Guinevere at all."

"Why I like her?" Lance waved his arms in the air. "I like her because, because she is beautiful and kind and true to her herself and she doesn't judge..."

"I'm not asking why _everyone_ likes her. Why do _you_ like her?" He reached over and poked Lancelot in he chest.

"Because she sees me as I am and doesn't care that I'm not noble or educated or clever and because she's beautiful!"

Galehaut raised his eyebrows, gave a slight eye roll and said, "_Oh_. I _see_."

Lancelot scowled. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, nothing!" Galehaut said, giving a placating shrug. "But...that is how she acts toward everyone. Isn't there something she does that's for you alone—that shows you how much she loves you in return? I mean, I can think of plenty of reasons why she could like you in particular, for you act very particular toward her, real reason why you should like her more than anyone else does..."

"You don't understand. When I first came here she helped me—and the way she looked at me..." Lancelot sighed.

Galehaut gave a sad smile. "Forgive me, my friend. I suppose I do not understand how anyone could love someone who did not provide you with recompense in some manner."

Lancelot looked up, genuine surprise in his eyes. "Love isn't about getting something back."

"Nothing is done selflessly," Galehaut said, the hardness of this truth making his voice rough, but he softened somewhat in the silence that followed it. "Though you might be the exception to that rule." He sat back. "And who am I to argue with a man who has no doubt courted many a lover in his time?"

At this Lancelot laughed loud and long. No doubt he considered the material aspects of his rude upbringing—lack of money, no permanent home, etc.—were disadvantages. Really, it astonished Galehaut that a man could go through his whole life reading everything to such literal standards.

Galehaut laughed along with him, more at Lancelot's merriment than at the possibility that the handsome young man in front of him had succeeded in going through his entire life with no one but Guinevere on his mind. He leafed through the book. "You know, with a bit of careful editing you could make a poem that would make anyone cry," he said.

"I'm not sure I want to make anyone _cry,_ even if I could."

Now it was Galehaut's turn to laugh in disbelief. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

"How very—precious you are." He furrowed his brow. "It doesn't bother you that Guinevere doesn't show you particular affection because you don't recognize your true value. You're trying to sell diamonds as coal." He pointed at Lancelot with his fork. "And the trouble is that that attitude just makes you all the more valuable." He shrugged. "Frankly I don't know how Guinevere can manage to restrain herself."

Lancelot looked away. "She has Arthur now."

"Indeed she does," Galehaut said, brightening visibly at this cheery little fact, enough to do something he probably shouldn't. He leaned over. "Why don't we edit one of these poems together, and then you can give it to her?"

Lancelot chewed on a pastry, clearly not paying attention to its taste. "You think it'll help?"

"...Help Guinevere see the error of her ways and make her throw herself into your waiting arms? We can but try," he replied. He picked up a pen and moved to sit next to Lancelot, the book spread out before them. "Now, I think if you moved this stanza down, and set the scene with a few lines, we might emphasize the revelation in line six..."


	7. You're My Best Friend

Galehaut stood with his hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his toes and heels pleasantly as Lance trembled at his side. After a few minutes he said, "There's Guinevere," and pointed her out helpfully, just in case Lancelot had been affected by momentary blindness and failed to see what was not fifty feet in front of him.

Lance nodded, his hands tightening on the piece of paper, befure realising he was crushing it. Panicking slighlty he tried to smooth it out.

"Relax," Galehaut said mildly. "What's there to worry about? If you're worried that she might kiss you, I can take it to her."

"What if she hates it?" Lancelot whispered out of the side of his mouth, trying and failing to look nonchalant.

"She won't hate it-I edited it," Galehaut said, taking the paper from Lancelot before he destroyed it. He folded it once in half and gave Lancelot a nod before he turned on his heel to head towards Gwen.

"No, wait..." Lancelot hissed and grabbed hold of Galehaut's sleeve to pull him back.

But Galehaut seemed to have no intention of going anywhere, and stopped when Lancelot tightened down on his arm. The ginger knight gave his friend an encouraging smile. "_Love without fear and trepidation is fire without flame or heat, day without sun, summer without flowers, winter without frost, sky without moon_."

"Alright, Malory, give it here!" Lancelot made a grab for the sheet of paper, still trying to keep the volume down as he didn't want to attract Gwen's attention. Seeing the two of them squabbling was not how he wanted this meeting to start.

Galehaut held it out of reach. "Fear can be of good advantage, if used correctly," he said. "Harness it, and you can soar on the clouds. She's going to love it, anyway."

Lancelot resisted the urge to snatch the page back in case it ripped, "I've got to give it to her first..." Tying to keep one eye on Gwen as she picked flowers at the same time as rescue the poem, he recognized the familiar stride of Arthur as he appeared in the background, pausing to look around for a moment before homing in on Gwen.

Galehaut gently let go of the paper, but Lancelot wasn't paying attention to him anymore. It was really…beautiful, seeing how Lancelot watched her. He got a kind of glow around him, and it stirred a man's nobility to see how the glow emanated from him. At least it stirred Galehaut's nobility to do so. It made him feel like…like the better man within him—even if that man had never really lived—was what was really true. Could truth work like that? After all, here and now, one truth was as good as another. Love could be friendship, a villainous past could be forgotten. If he claimed that he lied about everything else just to make Lancelot understand he was making that better man exist, he felt so noble, so _worthy_. It made him hope, despite all, that he was worth enough for Lancelot to someday look on him with that gaze.

He watched Lancelot as he saw Gwen look on Arthur, her whole face lighting up at the sight of him. He watched Lancelot's face fall as as she ran, almost _skipped_ towards Arthur and wrapped her arms joyfully round his neck. He watched Lancelot look away as she kissed Arthur and he kissed her back...

Finally Lancelot gave a sigh sighing he looked at the piece of paper in his hand and shook his head. The tremor faded from his hands, but it was replaced with something much more serious. "I don't think this is a good idea." He said quietly.

"Oh, don't worry, Arthur will go away in a minute."

"She still loves him. Just look at her."

Galehaut glanced from Lancelot to the royal couple, then back to Lancelot, trying to see what his friend was seeing. Nothing he could see had changed to account for Lancelot's sudden change in behavior. "Yes. But...this poem is supposed to change that. Isn't it?"

"She's happy as she is." His shoulders slumped in misery.

Galehaut couldn't believe his ears, and had to work very hard to keep from gulping like a fish. If Lancelot thought Guinevere was already happy..."What are you saying?"

Suddenly Lancelot squared his shoulders. "I'm saying it's not my place to change that. I need to be happy that she's happy." He looked at Galehaut, and, regret etched into his features, held the poem out to him in a hand that was once again shaking, but shaking for an altogether different reason. "You should have this. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

Galehaut turned a very soft pink, but he took the paper with dignity. It wasn't meant for him, he reminded himself. _He's just giving it to me because he can't give it to her. And yet...in the end, he has given it to me. It doesn't have to matter what he meant by it._ "Alright," he said, and put it unceremoniously in his pocket. But Lancelot had started gazing and Guinevere and Arthur again. He put his arm gently around Lancelot's broad shoulders, relishing in the feeling of Lancelot's close contact. But as he touched Lancelot he could feel the anguish descending from the knight's shoulders like raindrops, trickling down into the rest of his body, and he found he could take no more pleasure in this turn of events. He gave Lancelot a gentle squeeze. "Come away, my dear."

Lancelot looked one last time at the oblivious Gwen—she was laughing at something Arthur said, her head tilted to one side, her whole attention with him. Tearing his eyes away Lancelot let Galehaut lead him away. "I think maybe I need a drink."

"An excellent suggestion, my friend."

A while later Galehaut found himself holed up in a corner of the Rising Sun, a bottle of whiskey in front of them. It was half-way gone, and Galehaut was still on his first dram. The place was starting to fill up around them, but neither one of the two knights noticed.

"You're still crying," Galehaut observed.

Lancelot wiped his eyes furiously, looking around to make sure no one noticed. "Sorry." he muttered, taking another swallow of whiskey. It felt good going down his throat, but still didn't manage to warm the icy pit of his stomach.

"Not too fast!" Galehaut warned, feeling like a mother hen. Over the past hour conversation had been severely lacking between them, with Galehaut trying unsuccessfully to change the subject and Lancelot crying too much to speak. Galehaut cleared his throat. "Er...perhaps if you talked about it..."

"I'm sorry." Lancelot smiled lopsidedly, "I'm not exactly a fun evening out, am I?" He apologized, his voice slurring around the edges. "But thanks for being here."

"Oh, any time, my friend," Galehaut said, patting Lancelot's hand. "These emotional bumps happen to the best of us. In a month Guinevere will be completely out of your mind."

"I don't know why you're my friend...but you're a good friend." Lancelot curled his fingers around Galehaut's.

"You're my friend solely because I won't leave you alone," Galehaut said, grinning. "If I didn't talk to you, you would forget all about me. Completely thrown by the wayside, I would be." he sighed theatrically. "It's so hard being such a friend-of-convenience but I soldier on as best I can. You can take the bottle away," Galehaut said to the barkeep, although there was plenty left in it.

"Not yet." Lancelot wrapped his other hand around the bottle. "It still hurts. Not yet, please."

Galehaut gave a nervous smile. "Er—just one moment, please," he said to the bartender, then turned back to Lancelot and lowered his voice. "You do realize that this bottle was full when he gave it to us?"

"Yeah, but it's not empty yet." He smiled, eyes more than a little glazed over.

"Yes," Galehaut said carefully, "But there's enough left to get Gwaine drunk. I didn't realize you were such a stout drinker."

"I'm not," Lancelot giggled, "But this is a special occasion right?"

"Apparently," Galehaut said, as Lancelot gave a kind of cavalier laugh and took another swig directly from the bottle. "You've really never been turned down by a potential lover before?" He shrugged. "Though with a face like yours, I suppose that makes sense..."

"I didn't exactly have women breaking down-my-door." Lancelot shrugged, "And Gwen was my..." He looked around trying to find the right word, "My everything. But…" Lancelot , who seemed loathe to let go of Galehaut's hand or the bottle, gave Galehaut a punch on the arm that nearly spilled whiskey over them both. "You're my best friend, you know that."

"Thank you, Lancelot," he replied automatically, "that means quite a lot to me." He gently tried to pry the bottle away from Lancelot, but Lancelot must have realized how little the alcohol was helping his mood and he let it be taken away.

"What did you do?" He asked suddenly.

Galehaut blinked, at once enjoying the experience of seeing Lancelot in a capacity that he had never before seen him in _and_ becoming worried. "Er—do?" Galehaut managed, as he casually moved to put the bottle behind his back.

"When you got turned down by a woman."

For a second he didn't really comprehend what Lancelot meant, then, "_Oh_!" He took a deep breath, not really sure what to say. "Well—this is me you're talking to, but I think I understand what you mean. I suppose I just...tried to be happy. As a friend, you know."

"Did you manage to be happy? I'm not sure if I can be happy." Lancelot looked at the bottle Galehaut was drinking from as he tried to work out how _he_ had the whiskey and Lancelot didn't.

"You're happy now," Galehaut said, hoping that drunk-Lancelot could be more easily convinced than sober-Lancelot. "I mean, look around! You have a knighthood—what you've always wanted—in the finest kingdom in the land, friends to talk to. What more could a man want?"

"A lover?" Lancelot sighed.

"And what good is a lover, I ask you?" Galehaut said. "A manipulator? A nuisance? A fine way to waste money? Lovers make for too many compromises, demand too much and offer so little in return. Surely, a man would not treat his enemies with the same contempt that he does his lover. You're _lucky_ to be single."

Lancelot laughed a little bitterly, "I wanted someone to share my life with..." He tried to pat Galehaut's shoulder, failed, and settled for bumping him with his shoulder. "I don't think you've ever really been in love, Galehaut."

_Ah_, Galehaut thought. _That's why everyone else has stopped caring about Lancelot's self-inflicted plight_. _But pain will do that to a man—it makes him unable to see beyond himself to what's staring him in the face._ He didn't dignify Lancelot's crass words with comment, but instead let them roll smoothly off as if they hadn't been uttered. "Have you ever heard the story of Shalott?"

"No." Lance shook his head, curious.

"A lady is trapped in a tower, with a curse that prevents her from looking out of the only window. Instead she must view the world only through a piece of polished silver. Figures pass in the reflection like shadows—a deer, a farmer, a pair of newly-weds—making the lady long to behold true beauty with her own eyes. One day a handsome knight passes by her window, and she is so taken by his beauty that she turns to gaze on him, the true beauty she always longed for." He paused, taking a sip of whiskey.

"Well? What happens to her?" Lancelot was too far gone to disguide his curiosity. He always loved stories.

"The curse fell upon her, and she got in a boat and floated down the river that separated her tower from the land, and there she died. Eventually the river took her in the path of the handsome knight whose beauty had killed her. But the knight, of course, did not recognize her, and rode on to his home without a second thought."

"That's sad. Sad n' horrible." Lance pouted.

"Yes, it is. Isn't it sad that she, who had the power to bestow the title of "True Beauty" on anyone or anything that passed in front of her mirror, bestowed it on man who already had that title? What wonders she could have performed if she had given True Beauty to the farmer—if he had known that she looked on him rather than handsome knight? But she let herself be ruled by the world's understanding of love, and died without every making a difference to anyone."

"Uh huh. Love doesn't always look like you suspect it to. _Expect_."

Galehaut nodded. "I do believe I will have to introduce more alcohol into our lunch meals," he said. "It seems to do wonders for opening your mind to different ideas!"

At the word _alcohol_ Lancelot looked hopefully at the bottle Galehaut was still holding.

"Alright, but this is the _last_ one," Galehaut said, letting him have the bottle. "I really do think you've have enough."

"The best friend." Lancelot said again, smiling broadly as he took a large swallow from the bottle.

Galehaut rolled his eyes and got up. "Alright, I think that's enough 'special occasion' for the evening." When Lancelot didn't respond he reached down to help Lancelot up. Lancelot put the bottle down on the second attempt. The first attempt missing the table completely, before letting Galehaut pull him to his feet.

He swayed dangerously on the spot. "I think I've lost my legs..."

"You think?" Galehaut grumbled good-naturedly as he took Lancelot's arm. "Come on, you'd better sleep it off." They stepped out somewhat unsteadily into the cold night air, swaying dangerously—more because Galehaut was not quite able to hold Lancelot all the way up than because of Galehaut's slight inebriation.

"Is'r cloak warm enough?" Lancelot asked, suddenly concerned as his addled brain remembered how much his friend disliked the cold.

"Oh, I'm alright. How could I be cold with a nice warm knight by my side?" He gave Lancelot a friendly squeeze, in truth taking the opportunity to wrap his arm around Lancelot's waist to better support him. Their sides touched all the way down, but Galehaut tried desperately not to think about it.

"I'll keep you warm." Lancelot smiled, wrapping an arm around Galehaut's shoulder, as he tried to persuade his legs to move in a vaguely straight line. He wasn't that successful.

They arrived at Lancelot's room without incident. Gwaine passed them on his way /to/ the tavern, and gave Galehaut a surreptitious thumbs-up at Galehaut's apparent victory. Oh, if only it really were a victory...this playing at hugging was starting to put a strain on Galehaut's nerves, and his trousers. He quickly opened the door. "Well, here we are..." but he under-estimated how drunk Lancelot really was, and even though he jumped forward he only just narrowly managed to catch Lancelot before he fell on his face.

"Oops." Lancelot giggled as he nearly faceplanted into the floor. "Who put that there?"

"Who put what—? Never mind. You need to lie down." He hauled Lancelot over to the bed and sat him down, then got up to take off Lancelot's shoes.

Lancelot sat up suddenly, nearly smacking the top of his head into Galehaut's chin. "You never told me where you're rrrrreally from!"

"I'm from a faraway land, here to commit nefarious deeds," he said, on automatic, then fixed Lancelot with a glare. But Lancelot would _definitely_ not remember any of this tomorrow. Still, it sounded so odd to be telling the truth. It didn't even sound like the truth anymore—it sounded so unreal, like he was just saying something because he could instead of pouring out his heart. He gazed long and hard at Lancelot…would he be able to tell? Could he tell?

"What nerafi..nefro... farrus deeds?" he quavered, half-drunk and half-scared.

He sighed and turned his attention back to Lancelot's boots. "Lie down, Lancelot."

Lancelot frowned. "No."

Galehaut, not knowing of any other way to get Lancelot to lie down, jumped up suddenly. "If you must know, I'm supposed to assassinate the king," he said, in his most devilish voice possible. It was apparently frightening enough to make Lancelot throw himself back on the bed. Satisfied, Galehaut gave a grin and moved back to take off Lancelot's shoes.

Lancelot pouted. "But you're my friend. You're everyone's friend. Why do you want to do...things like that?"

"I was told to. It's nothing personal." He sighed. "At least it wasn't personal." He smiled and patted Lancelot on the knee. "Don't worry, I won't assassinate anyone while you're asleep."

"Not gonna sleep." Lancelot slurred, blinking as he tried to focus on Galehaut. "This is important. Who told you? ...make him stop."

Galehaut, having finished his work, sat down next to Lancelot on the bed, and smiled down benevolently at Lancelot as he raised an eyebrow. "You're going to lose sleep over a silly strip of a ginger like me?"

"You're not silly." Lancelot protested. "You're important!"

"My, I didn't think you were that drunk," Galehaut retorted, and turned to go.

"Hey." Lancelot grabbed his arm, "I meant it."

Galehaut almost flinched as Lancelot grabbed him, but his touch was so gentle, even if it was sloppy from too much to drink. Lancelot always treated him so civilly. The way he held Galehaut's arm was so affectionate, with his thumb rubbing against the naked inside of his wrist. "I know you mean it," he said. _But I know you don't mean it like this. Why must you be so wonderfully naive?_

"…Don't understand…" Lancelot blinked, slowly letting Galehaut go.

Galehaut didn't realize he was thinking alloud. "Oh—nothing." He gently put Lancelot on his side and patted his shoulder. "Go to sleep, my friend." He stayed with Lancelot a few more minutes though, with Lancelot's hand resting on his knee. Lancelot breathed so quietly as he slept, and it was captivating to watch. But he knew he couldn't just stay here, or he would do something he would really regret. He put his hand over Lancelot's.

"_Ah Lancelot," _he whispered,_ "Loved of the loveliest—yet I must die for want of one bold word_."

He leaned down and kissed Lancelot gently on his temple, then got up and left.


End file.
